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A Moment for a Memory
How could I know, as I sat in the grass in front of my grandmother’s house, on a July night almost fifty years ago, that this memory would stay with me forever? That every time I hear crickets on a summer evening, part of me would return to that evening?
Missouri summer nights spent trying to sleep in a house that had no air conditioning, the windows open to whatever breeze might cross my skin. The smell of dead ashes in the woodstove and odors lingering from the remains of the day’s meals.
When fall comes, the smells bring a memory of being sixteen and walking down the sidewalk in an afternoon in Kalkaska, Michigan, wading through several inches of leaves. I hear the crunch as I step, the clean cool scent of winter edging toward me. But I didn’t know I would remember that moment forever, that it would present itself to me as the seasons change.
Regina Calton Burchett
September 10, 2003
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